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WHEN BARDS 
SINQ OUT OF TUNE 

4s 



Bbbcy press 

PUBLISHERS 

114 

FIFTH AVENUE 

XonDon NEW YORK /llboutieal 



THE t.lSRAI'Y &F 

etNGrtESS, 
Two Copiw Becsiveo 

APR. ? 1902 

COPyRiaMT EHTSY 

CL48S ^ )OCo Mo. 

COP? a 



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Copyright, iqo2, 

by 

THE 

BbbcB press 



PKEFACE. 

" And I had done a hellish thing." 

Coleridge. 

Disgust and other things led me to write 
and to publish this satire. If I have spoken 
rudely of any person or persons it has not 
been without cause. As to the critics, I 
have stated the truth. I have as much 
right to put Mark Twain in satire as he 
has to put the religion of my friends into 
ridicule. 

I may incur the charge of jealousy for 
writing a satire which has for its mark the 
greatest geniuses (so-called) of the age, 
but such was not the cause, as I never had 
any particular thirst for literary distinction, 
and what I have written has been more of a 
task than a pleasure, both to myself and 
friends. If I ever had any ambition, it was 
for another art entirely or for wealth, and I 
certainly do not envy talented actors who 
have raised the dramatic art to the very 

3 



4 * Preface. 

summit of perfection, nor do I envy J. P. 
Morgan, but rather admire him as the great- 
est genius of the times in any hne except the 
stage, and possibly invention. I admire any 
man of genius, but loath to see a Romulus 
Augustus on the throne of a Trajan. 

I studied poetry and other literature in 
school, and though my standing was low in 
my class learned something of the merits of 
writing, and therefore claim the right to give 
my opinion of the petty scribblers who 
infest the world to-day, although I claim no 
ability in the writing of verse, and this was 
written with no attempt to display any 
imagined talent. The reason that all 
species of writers have been included under 
the one name, "bards," is that they all 
dabble in verse. There may be some authors 
admirers of such, and publishers who will 
object to this j^rotest, but I venture to say 
that in this I merely act as spokesman (self- 
constituted of course) for the world at 
large. 

I offer no apology for what has been hinted 
at either in the political, religious, or "in- 
tellectual " world. Brains are mud. No one 
knows anything, no one ever did know any- 
thing, and the prospects with the present 



Preface. 5 

school of thougbt are not over propitious to 
tlie liope that we will know something some 
day. Why not then develop art or give 
people a smile on earth (this is our realm now 
and the most worthless and vain people in 
it are those who pass their lives thinking 
they will gain something from heaven after 
death), not babble about love, religion, and 
reform. 

The present age is as immoral as any past 
age ; on the other hand it is as moral. No 
nation ever existed that was blessed as our 
own is. Why then complain. We cannot 
afford reform, it is too expensive. The civil 
war Vv^as too expensive, though the cause was 
good. The war that freed Cuba contained a 
just cause until it was converted into a con- 
quest, the principles on which our nation is 
founded turned aside, and hustled by the aid 
of the Monroe Doctrine which acted as a pon- 
toon bridge thousands of miles beyond the 
sea, where the great Monroe said we had no 
business. The bridge, which was not too 
elastic, became strained and ultimately shat- 
tered, and sank in the waves. We are 
marooned there now, with nothing to crawl 
back on. Governments make mistakes and 
lie and cheat the same as individuals do and 



6 Preface. 

should be censured when they become hypo- 
critical. We are in dearth of a statesman 
in our congress, a Daniel Webster, and we 
haven't one ; a man of ability, who can 
do business with nations and with the people 
of his own country and avert war and horror 
and mix-ups in China and tyranny in the 
Philipines if possible, and expose the silly 
doctrines of demagogues who try to delude 
the people, even of America, with a fairy tale 
of free money or with awful pictures of a 
king and a tyrannical despotism. We are 
as destitute of a statesman as we are of a 
literary man. The French Revolution was 
a panorama of the most intense human 
horror, which culminated in the worship of 
one single man of gigantic vanity (which, by 
the way, is the correct and only definition of 
fame or glory), who strewed the earth with 
enough " hostile bones" to insure the reign 
of liberty over the entire universe for thou- 
sands of years. The result tuas a little 
liberty, but even now there is a prospect of 
the return of the Bourbons to power, and the 
French government is as corrupt as the 
American (the general government is meant) 
and the French people are as corrupt as the 
American people. 



Preface. 7 

The birth of Christ was the most lamen- 
table event that ever occurred in human 
histor}'. The most horrible conflicts recorded 
in the annals of nations were due to Chris- 
tianity, or the abuse of the same. St. 
Bartholomews, the Crusades, and the cen- 
turies of unceasing wars in every European 
nation, and some Asiatic, were conflicts be- 
tween Christians, and what did all this chaos 
give us ? Ten thousand creeds as unreason- 
able to a man possessed of common sense as 
the myths of Greece and Eome are to the 
world to-day. The Bible, with the New 
Testament omitted, is the most profane and 
ungodly book that was ever given to man, 
a record of chaos, wars, murders, and other 
crimes, which will not be mentioned here, in 
which the liar and the cheat came out 
victorious in most cases, while crimes that 
would shame a fiend are attributed to a so- 
called just and merciful God. Does anyone 
wonder that the word idioc}'- has been used 
here ? This book should not be allowed in 
the family, the church or the government. 
What has been said has not been said because 
I am bold, or because I think J. know more 
than others, but is merely an expression of 
extreme disgust and a struggle between 



8 Preface. 

common sense on my part and of idiocy on 
the part of the persons or institutions named 
or referred to, both in this preface and in the 
poem, and very little of what has been said 
will be changed, no matter if some may 
protest. 

One gentleman to whom I have alluded (a 
rather distinguished person in his line) may^ 
if he sees this, which is highly improbable, 
think me unappreciative of a slight favor he 
did me once upon a time. If such is the case 
I will surely try to atone for the crime or afc 
least sue for pardon. 

Should this production be noticed by the 
*' literary world " or " critics " and receive 
any abuse whatever I hold in reserve some 
very appropriate reasons to advance in my 
own defense, or I may in a real short time 
produce another poem ' ' breathing " defiance. 
Should anyone attempt by the aid of law to 
obtain retribution, they will not only show 
their weakness and folly but will also cause 
me an unlimited amount of trouble, and 
perhaps expense, so I would say to those who 
contemplate such a thing in theheat of their 
anger to please, please refrain. I assume all 
responsibility however for what has been 
said, the publishers having condescended to 



Preface. 9 

''soil the press" merely as a matter of 
business. No one ever saw this poem except 
the printers and myself. 

A. Clark. 



WHEN BARDS SING OUT OF TUNE. 



'Tis said ere now the pen with good intent 

In mighty hands bold darts of satire sent 

O'er fields where trampling feet rare flowers 
crushed, 

And panic stirred where'er the missiles 
rushed. 

Yet when the field was cleared — the weak- 
lings fled — 

Rare sunshine o'er the misused region 
spread ; 

Thus with the foe, the world and time could 
cope 

Great names as Butler, Goldsmith, Byron, 
Pope. 

Immortal songs from these illustrious men 

Flowed o'er the world to melt the gloom 

again, 

II 



12 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

By genius e'en our earthly sphere was blessed 
Nor by pretenders' scribblings still distressed, 
Yet Science soon assumed imperial sway 
Whose power has swept the tide of song 

away, 
Or in the shadow of the mistress died 
The flowers that feared to flourish by her 

side. 
While notes of masters echoed faint — anon 
Were swept away into oblivion. 
Yet wherefore mourn the loss of such as 

these 
When simpler strains of senseless song can 

please ? 
Why mourn the muse's death within a time 
When Amazons reign o'er the realms of 

rhyme ? 
No lovely queens with thoughtful souls 

serene 
Can now preside, times blessed by such have 

been. 
To 'scape such sights, the muses spread their 

wings — 
Disgusted soar o'er these unholy things. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 13 

Thus one must judge who haply glanced 

around 
And bold faced tyrants through the regions 

found. 
Rank weeds have grown and none remain 

to mow 
The spreading plague that flowers again 

may grow. 
Thus like the earth in antediluvian days 
A sight unholy greets the heavenly gaze. 
Nor, in these blighted days could one expect 
A noble thought in lovely language decked. 
All are so low in intellect and skill 
No power appears, yet children scribble still. 
Christ ! what mental freaks exist at times 
To torture man with silly prose and rhymes ! 

What magazines of witless " cleverness '' 
The listening ear of earth with rot distress ! 
Would Mozart bow to coon song writers 

now ? 
To Kipling shall the English poets bow ? 
Yet when such thus the sacred miise profane 
From protest why should all so long refrain? 



14 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Though Mammon rears his palace o'er our 

sphere 
With rule despotic — field for mastery clear — 
Though minds of genius e'en abandon art 
Why view unmoved the banished train de- 
part ? 
Though tyrants stir with wretched state- 
ments noise 
Like honored Poe's superior Colonel Joyce — 

Not all are thus, the curse not all shall bear 
Nor insult cast, like Joyce, at genius rare. 
This gifted man yields us his volume vile 
O'er which satanic souls might deign to 

smile, 
Yet sense revolts and taste in anger leaps 
That such a soul in realms of revery sleeps. 
But thanks to sense we're awed by few like 

this, 
Yet many another too has gone amiss — 
Yes, there are others, simple, hopeful, sweet. 
Who figures trace o'er many a startled 

sheet — 
Forever toiling— genius urging on— 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 15 

Though doubt may flutter near, 'tis quickly 
gone. 

The press, the pulpit, stage, society. 

All join the band— search for God's store- 
house " Key." 

'Tis right to write, but why not right the 
wrong, 

Purge earth of this degenerate prose and 
song ? 

Ah such a state might well make mortals 
sick ; 

Yet, dear machine, along thy labor click. 

Who would have reared o'er Delphi's sacred 

shrine 
To Phcebus, god of sunlight and divine, 
In ancient days, a hut of mud and called 
The thing a temple grand and marble 

walled ? 
Who then would placed within this vault 

profane 
Clay images of gods and heroes slain 
With worship feigned to these immortal 

ones 



i6 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Who glorious shone earth's deities and sons ? 
The altar who would set with Jewish beads 
For jewels symbols of these heroes' deeds ? 
What scribes and scribblers would have then 

rehearsed 
In doggerel lines of rhyme and blank the 

worst, 
The annals of the Grecian bright and brave, — 
Cast insults and not luster o'er his grave ? 
Who would have done such things as these ? 

The low 
Like Goths who pillaged Eonie an age ago. 
But never sacrilege like this occurred 
In those old days of which we oft have 

heard. 
O'er Delphi rose in reverence to the gods 
A massive structure, not a pile of sods, 
And marble glistened 'neath the sacred sun 
As o'er his shrine the glittering car was run, 
While gifted masters skilled in various arts 
Poured splendor o'er the deities of their 

hearts. 
Yet now it seems our shrine of Literature 
Is built of stuff which shall not long endure ; 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 17 

Weak proselytes of low, inferior creeds 
Swarm o'er the altars of apostate breeds ; 
Would-be artistic souls, all talentless, 
Within each niche of Glory's temple press, 
While in the portals eager crowds behold 
The glaring spots which have not yet been 

sold. 
For all must know that in this Golden Age 
For lucre names are scrawled on Honor's 

page. 
Thus crowded in our numerous magazines 
In mammoth type stand notices of scenes 
That startle one as midnight phantoms might, 
Or dreams of thugs which chill the soul with 

fright, 
Or tender tales by social lions wrote, 
With scenes in mansions laid or yachts afloat, 
Yet on the title page of some reviews 
The printer's name 'neath language to en- 
thuse 
The passer-by speaks out in daubs of ink 
That of the contents one might wistful think. 
Yet purchased once that which within you 
find 



i8 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Are serial stories of the plotless kind. 
Or smaller gems of love's most singular pas- 
sion, 
Or seaside episodes with men of fashion, 
Or Grace's sweetheart, painter, millionairej 
Or novelist, who's got or not got tliere; 
And congressmen and senators galore 
Whose brains (and wealth) would fill a reser- 
voir ; 
Or patriotic, glowing, glorious scenes 
Of soldier-life o'er in the Philippines — 
How noble Clarence on his death-bed gave, — 
E'er being lowered in his soldier's grave — 
This, that and t'other sad confused advice 
Unto his comrade for his lady nice ; 
Or of romances round in regions swell, 
Where men are counts— each maid with coin 

a belle. 
Such thrilling tales with power are daily 

penned — 
Portrayed in type for which small sums we 

spend. 
While here and there all o'er the glorious 
land 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 19 

Tag dull disciples of the eager band — 
Full-fledged censors right from district school, 
Ambitious country lads who learned by rule — 
Who strolled to town— began by throwing 

paste, 
But later climbed into the chair of Taste- 
Praise famous authors powerful and great 
(But amateurs must bear these urchins' 

hate) 
Pick figures here and there like scratching 

hens — 
Drink Inspiration, ply their fluent pens 
Tell all the merit of the mighty things, 
Praise villains even or give ladies wings, 
Till one would judge our authors had no 

faults, 
That shuffling scribes tread life with airy 

waltz. 
Such are we now, all reason cast behind. 
Weak-minded authors prate to grand man- 
kind. 

Byron, thou shouldst be living at this 
time, 



20 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Earth hath much need of thee and of thy 

rhyme.* 
Thine was the power, thine the mighty soul, 
O'er which not centuries e'en shall hold con- 
trol. 
Thine was the force that trod the pigmies 

down. 
That ''poured a flood of rhyme along the 

town." 
Thine was the skill of satire linked with 

might 
Which killed the weak or raised them into 

light. 
Alas that none with half thy genius lives, 
That all give words but no one glory gives. 
Yet o'er this i^age my feeble muse will trace 
A silly thing to bring perhaps disgrace. 
And Pope has lived a life of long disease. 
Yet flowers around cast perfume on the 

breeze. 
But now the world of letters blighted is 
Gone to decay — a sickness worse than his. 

* " Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour, Eng- 
land hath need of thee."— Wordswoeth. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 21 

For thought and beauty from his musings 

sprung — 
Then earth applauded strains which masters 

sung. 
Not now a flower o'er the desert blooms, 
Some get, but should not, Honor's lying 

tombs. 
Not that I seek to shine as others shone, 
Since might's not mine I rather be unknown. 
Better to be a self-respecting thing 
Than to, for tips, to bands of fakirs cling. 

We all have heard that Midas won mule's 

ears, 
But shall we deem that through these later 

years 
The tortured world has been and is the same 
And yields to ugly Pan not Phoebus fame ? 
Nay, say not so, for those have been forgot 
Who fain would write, and old earth cast her 

lot 
In other ways, and lo, the grand advance 
On reason she relies — not fickle chance. 
Yet simple souls stake everything for fame, 



22 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

All that the proud world owes them is a 

name. 
And "fools rush in where angels fear to 

tread," 
Cheat living mortals, spurn the gifted dead. 
While souls love-sickened cram the daily 

press 
With little gems on family happiness — 
And tell poor orphans, widows and the like 
To stick to Bill or to abandon Mike ; 
To let the dead man slumber in his grave — 
Clasp this beau in the arms and be his 

slave — 
To let the kisses sizzle on his mouth — 
For widows, oft get parched from endless 

drouth . 
But did they place advice in decent rhyme, 
This sweet reform against connubial crime 
Might then assume the hues of poisonous 

weeds — 
Be fair to view, though dangerous still the 

seeds. 
What do they know of matrimony ? They 
No doubt have been there in their little day ; 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 23 

So others have, but who in heaven, or hell, 
Or earth the path to happmess shall tell ? 

A million wives have had a million men 

(A million more no doubt will have again). 
But who shall tell we lovers what to do 
Unless we hear what all already knew ? 
give a rest, let us rest in peace, 
Let all this philosophic jargon cease. 
Ambrosial food of love one cares not for 
Since such is not and never was of yore. 
A little sense instead we would prefer, 
Not plans to catch or dodge or him or her. 
E'en literature might make a nation great 
As naval heroes, yet we still await 
And listen in the calm suspense to this— 
These treatises on matrimonial bliss. 
But all have got the " true-born poet's soul," 
Whose flight to heaven no mortal things con- 
trol ; 
On airy wing they sweep the heavenly 

spheres. 
Tell what they saw of truth and draw our 

tears. 
All list to music in the moaning wind, 



24 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

All beauty in the scenes of nature find. 
But strange it is there springs from such as 

those 
Mere reference to such things in ignorant 

prose. 

But, lo, the poet in his magic cell : — 
O'er every form of verse he scratches well. 
Yet since his rhymes were oft considered 

rank, 
He copies Shakspeare and descends to blank. 
He ploddeth on — Rhyme's shattered palace 

knocks 
Away and drives along thie site an ox. 
Bent o'er a highly polished desk he draws 
A monstrous figure — and cheap men's ap- 
plause. 
A homely metaphor besmeared with ink 
He scrawls in revery, for he scarce can think. 
'Tis easy, true, o'er earth to scatter rhyme — 
To speak of heathens in a heathen clime — 
To chant of Hindoos or of staler things, 
And weave in that which awe from Ignorance 
brings ; 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 25 

To prove a negro and a cow the same, 
And win by freakish figures fleeting fame. 
But 'twould be rather difficult, I ween, 
To draw as Homer did an epic scene — 
To speak of Afric as he did of Troy — 
'Twould take a man I think — no scribbling 

boy. 
But list', here rises one with promise sweet, 
Another Milton presently we'll greet, 
It is an echo from the days that were. 
E'en now his style recalls good Whittier ; 
Disturb him not but let his infant muse 
Sleep, calmly dwelling on the various hues 
Of lovely language, or behold the scenes 
Of beauty here or in the Philippines ; 
There, rests a field for some gigantic mind — 
There too live apes much like our rhyming 

kind. 
In sooth they seem of very similar breed, 
Whose tuneful chatter we enraptured heed. 
'Tis Kipling tells us of the apes from which 
Great Darwin dreams we sprung, so in a 

niche 
Of fame at least will one descendant shine. 



26 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

But heaven forbid that still we hear him 
whine, 

What noise would echo through the hall of 
fame, 

What flowers would Shoot around the gifted 
Game ! 

Kipling, worshiped idol of the set,* 

You nobly spoke to say, " Lest we forget," 

For now it seems too much has been 
forgot. 

Yet pity we those who forget thee not. 

Eeraember, though, thy " White Man's Bur- 
den," Rud, 

And load him lightly plodding through this 
mud. 

Again, Ajax, call on Jove for light 

* Kipling's verse at least displays no more ability than 
an ordinary schoolboy's scribblings would should he 
attempt poetry, and it would be as absurd to compare 
him with even Chatterton or Henry White who died 
when they were mere boj's and whose works are master- 
pieces showing the most precocious geniuses that we 
find in literature, as it would be to compare a popular 
song-writer with Wagner. Mr. Kipling has never 
chosen a beautiful or poetical subject, nor has he ever 
•written a beautiful passage of verse. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 27 

To melt this plague, this darkness, from our 

sight. 
Ah, would it not be pleasant once to hear 
A nightingale with voice divinely clear ? 
Would then these bard apes chatter still, or 

pause, 
Or skulk into the swamps, or give applause ? 
Of the effect we only can surmise — 
But not too soon a voice like this will rise 
Triumphant o'er the dark polluted air. 
To view the scene would be to view despair. 
'Twere easier far for fiends to angels be 
Or for a Nymph to seek Proserpina. 
But let them scrawl, poor, feeble, toiling 

things. 
Promise at least Elysian Fields and wings, — 
'Twill cheer them through this awful world 

of ours. 
All children should have praises — later 

flowers. 

'Tis said the Harpies, hideous hungry cranes, 
Of whose existence still the myth re- 
mains. 



28 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Tormented Phineus, blind, and snatched his 

food, 
So now our critics of that hungry brood 
Snatch every promise from a soul serene 
And praise a friend ignobly low and mean, 
As though they deemed one friendless and 

alone 
A base intruder in their dwarfish zone. 
Who can advance if learned imbeciles 
Give idiots praise— presumptuous children 

smiles ? 
But there may rise a haughtier one some 

day. 
Ignoring all and hold the beasts at bay. 
Why urge not scribes who do no good nor 

harm 
That fame upon our nation spread her charm? 
In such an age overshadowed so with 

schemes 
O'er earth will Poesy cast no splendid beams ? 
To thus be fettered give ye one excuse, 
Shall none a volume readable produce ? 
"What have we ever done to bear this 

grudge," 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 29 

In dearth of Hght shall we be choked with 

smudge ? 
All that we chance to read appears insane 
Penned by such " wits " as our revered Mark 

Twain, 
Thus when this ever-pleasing merry one 
Upon a pure religion pours his fun ; 
Harmless, perhaps, but doubly low in that, 
By grinning friends afraid not of combat, 
Supported, he, rules, lion of the day. 
To such as these we now must homage pay. 

Is there no wit, no force, no revery. 
To stir an age when thought to act is free ? 
Is there no taste, no eloquence, no strength 
To urge the muse to yield us power at 

length ? 
Bards are not born, they represent the 

times, 
Display the people's thoughts in various 

rhymes. 
Thus ere the war that made the negro free 
(And orators of high and low degree) 
We find a school of wondrous moral men 



30 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

A nation firing with the "flame-dipped'' 

pen.* 
Some deem that they alone have done the 

work, 
Like Grecian Fire once subdued the Turk. 
Some, too, proclaim that Voltaire and Rous- 
seau 
O'er France once cast the thundrous clouds 

of woe. 
This may be truth, but what a lovely 

thing 
It were if they on history glance then sing 
In verses meterless of honored men 
Who stirred the world to terror now and then. 
The Bourbon despot and the master gave 
The cause that freed the Frenchman and the 

slave. 
While those who snatched the chance rushed 

in in time 

* I wonder whether the negroes would prefer to work 
for masters obtaining the " necessities of life," and be- 
ing used in most cases with kindness, receiving a little 
punishment now and then, such as a whipping, or to be 
" free " and burned at the stake by we " patriots " and 
" lovers of justice." I do not know. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 31 

To strew the earth with seeds that blossomed 
Crime. 

But why now shout to h\borers anarchy ? 

Is not this nation glorious still and free ? 

Why then pollute the spirit of the day — 

Urge foreigners to snatch our wealth away ? 

Have we not now what France with terror 
bought ? 

Has history not through bloody annals 
taught 

The gloom of war, ambition, envy, and 

The false desire that our wealth expand ? 

Who doth it harm if able men extract 

A little gold from some neglected tract ? 

What harm if rich men's cattle roam the 
plain ; 

Their floating mansions plow the watery 
plain ? 

If they for you and I railroads construct — 

Span stream and vale with steel and via- 
duct ? 

Build mammoth engines wrought of worth- 
less steel, 

Gigantic plans for future growth reveal — 



32 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Win forty millions on the board of trade — 
If they our rights respected — laws obeyed ? 
And forty thousand souls who dreamed of 

wealth, 
Who sought to clasp it quickly and by 

stealth, 
Late saw their visions melt — hope changed 

to hate. 
Those who were sanguine wander desolate. 
All live alike, all earthly treasure seek — 
And avarice conquers strong — makes wild 

the weak. 
Our daily riots illustrate the truth, 
And seeds uncouth breed principles uncouth. 
No matter what their wage, if great or 

small. 
By Mammon and by Gain are governed all. 
They all complain, fight for a little more. 
Then curse the men they should be thankful 

for. 
Are we not all to build a fortune free ? 
Alas, we lack the tool — Ability. 
Yet do they cry, ''They stole our chance 

from us 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 33 

'Tis they alone who made us lowly thus." 

Unhappy, jealous, discontented, sad. 

They seek lost blessings which they never 

had, 
Then say not that if one would scribble well 
His song and thought on tyranny must 

dwell. 
The cause is false, such evil spirits grim. 
Though gentle rains may make the river 

brim 
With torrents gushing onward to the main, 
Who would behold the heavens dark again, 
Or wish that vapors gather o'er the sky 
Whence lightnings strong would flash 

through realms on high, 
Foreboding tempests direful and strong ? 
Should such as these win praises for their 

song ? 
Nay, rather check the fleecy threatening cloud 
Or spurn the jerky medley of the proud. 

But college pedants, who would startle earth, 

Proclaim the rich and learned of equal worth. 

Shakspeare descendeth from his lofty reign 




34 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

To join the greedy worshipers of Gain. 
As though a man who stumbled into oil, 
Or found a gold mine in his arid soil, 
With genius e'en produced the treasure rare 
That gives him luxury and luscious fare. 
But here's another adept of the school 
Who never kissed a woman — lucky fool. 
But who can blame him, here's a happy 

chance 
To cast his name to us and jolly France ; 
For over there an old boy, such as he, 
Is little short of a monstrosity. 
But once he shone there, so the gay girls say, 
He even kissed them on a thoughtless day. 
But who should care if these immortal men 
Say this, or that, and say it o'er again ? 
Why should a noble face adorn the press 
With girls who won the modest one's caress ? 
We know not why, but of one fact are sure — 
The fast decline of sense and literature. 
We, too, conclude these pedagogues are daft 
To laugh at things at which, ere this, none 

laughed. 
Now, juvenile professors, cease this noise 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 35 

'Tis impolite, and naughty, lovely boys. 
You may raise mortal angels to the skies 
But scarce can drag immortals down with 

lies.^ 
But I may wander from my theme and yet 
These interesting lads are in the set. 
philanthropic souls, an author's pound 
Would be a happy institute to found. 
To run the strayed or lost into at times, 
Or plagiarists who pirate modern rhymes. 
'Twould set the world from these mauraders 

free. 
But trouble is so irrevocably 
The lower breeds and higher, too, have lost 
Their way that such would court tremendous 

cost. 
And there exist few masters who could judge 
The lost from others and could bear their 

grudge. 
Nay 'twould not do, yet might the drove be 

taxed, 

" He raised a mortal to the skies 
She drew an angel down." 

— Bryden. 



56 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

(Thus do by them as they have done,) relaxed 
Might then the strain upon onr reason be 
For scores of head would break the law and 
flee. 

Grand editors your judging crew discharge,* 
Small brains compose it though their pay is 

large. 
Ye who stand great in bribes and politics 
A moment pause — a broken idol fix ; 
Cease once to plan for perquisites and fame, 
Do one good act, then genuine honor claim. 
For in your shelter rests a crazy crowd 
Who nought possess but royal live and proud. 
The great who even in our nation dwelt 
The insults of this motley crew have felt. 
ThuSjPoe, ^yhose muse attempted once to soar 

*Tliis refers of course to the so-called "critics "on the 
city and village newspapers. One declares that a cer- 
tain production is a masterpiece, another that it was not 
worth while and gives a few lines written by a prominent 
one of the modern multitude as a pattern for a young 
and unsophisticated writer who has not yet got on to 
the ways of the world, or composes a little gem extem- 
pore for the occasion. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tunc. 37 

To heights which none since reached, and, 

none before. 
Is now recalled as drunken or insane. 
(Thus well might shine amongst the modern 

train) 
Our greatest bard, an outcast and a sot. 
With name disgraced and lofty works forgot, 
All dead and powerless his place resigns 
To moral men, with good but feeble lines. 
And halls of honor for this goodness give 
Places meant for great not those who virtu- 
ous live. 
Let soon the sunshine melt this gloom away, 
And Justice hold again her rightful sway. 
Let fame deserved be yielded as before 
Misjudgment and injustice "nevermore." 

Shall simple critics form a feeble school 
Which wanders far from high poetic rule ? 
And strive to bring each soaring spirit 

down — 
In din the borrowed strains of power drown ? 
Or urge that children infants imitate 
Whose faint attempts are vague and desolate? 



38 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Who now would wish amongst the set to 

shine 
(E'en though they win applause) doomed to 

decline ? 
What stale advice they cast unto them now, 
To judge or to produce they know not 

how. 
E'en those most honored bear the rabble's 

hate 
And ruffians scoff at Britain's laureate. 

But e'en a Plato rises now and then 
Whose thoughts flow down his philosophic 

pen, 
A Socrates whose giant thinker thinks 
But muddled due to volumes mixed and 

drinks. 
Within his editorial room he looks 
Upon the titles of a hundred books 
On every subject heard or not heard of 
From Eden's site 'way down to modern love. 
Then, seeking for a refuge, views the skies 
Imagines that 'twould pleasant be to rise 
Above this intellectual labor and 
Unto the breezes let his wings expand. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 39 

A happy thought — he'll benefit mankind — 
'Twere crime that mortals be in doubt and 

blind. 
Then flows this '' masterpiece of human 

thought " 
From inspiration and from heaven caught, 
Proclaiming heaven somewhere beyond the 

sun '• 
Where some will float when woes of life are 

done. 
Is this not intellect ? Diogenes 
Did thy tub drift through smooth aerial seas ? 
Perhaps this master thus will float some day 
Unto his heaven in the Milky Way. 
Diogenes come back and trim thy lamp, 
In quest of man round thy old planet tramp. 

Not long ago under the head " Masterpieces of Hmuan 
Thought " appeared an article by someone (I know not 
who nor care) declaring that heaven must be some- 
where in the sky. A man who will express such igno- 
rant, idiotic ideas to the people of an enlightened age, I 
care not who he is, whether a college pedagogue or a 
venerable preacher, ought to be ridiculed. One finds 
that imbecility exists amongst the " intellectual-'' 
classes as in the lower breeds of humanity, but they're 
all the same to me although I'm not mucU of anybody 
myself. 



40 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

But such ideas pass for "thought" these days, 
Win great applause, and childish preachers 
praise. 

But still one more attempts another line 
Far more than mortal yet not quite divine, 
With firm belief in human destiny,— 
In God and man himself and idiocy, — 
Displays a hundred metaphors or so — 
Tracks back a principle whereby to show 
That J. P. Morgan is a child of years 
By fortune reared but now denounced with 

fears ; 
Explains why labor, wealth, this and that 

thing 
Such misery to a grand republic bring. 
That if a thousand men are millionaires 
Contempt the nation of this coterie bears — 
Shows how the congress (great, yet power- 
less) 
Linked with these monarchs brought us all 

distress. 
In short attempts to solve these problems 
that 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 41 

He thinks will ultimately cause combat. 
So will they, doubt it not, if such as these, 
To discord stir, shout ruin to the breeze. 
Poor bigot, why notleave these mounts alone 
Not strive to move them, try at first a stone 
And move thyself from Babel's noisy tower ? 
The power denied to all is not thy power. 
We heard the loud result of such a voice 
But just a few brief years ago when noise, 
Inspiring noise, flowed free from ''silvery 

tongues " 
But reason — if such was— dropped in the. 

lungs. 
Yes, we have heard a mighty man like this 
A nation picture filled with wealth and bliss 
Where magic engines rock or cinders fed 
Bright glittering showers o'er the country 

spread. 
But Truth, dove-winged, came flitting o'er 

the scene 
Spread quiet in her path — the dream had 

been. 
But io, the tyrant rose again and spoke 
Of tragedy that startling fears awoke — 



42 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

While eastern gamblers chimed into the din, 
Feigned good to do with money, lies and sin ; 
Told that a monarch soon would rear his 

throne 
And self-crowned rule the land subdued 

alone. 
But tigers oft may vicious be and growl 
Or strike with terror those who hear them 

howl ; 
Yet when the gentler jungle voices speak, 
They skulk away and newer pastures seek. 
shade of empire, cast thy form away 
Thy melancholy cloud but shields decay, 
Not o'er republics, principles, and all 
That man hath blessed, thy sable robes shall 

fall. 
No golden crown, no scepter still shall bear 
Away the truths that lands in freedom 

share. 
Though tyrants howl and worshipers of 

Gain 
Escort calamity not in their train 
Shall souls deluded tramp— no banners 

stream 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 43 

Fair emblems of the knaves' ungodly dream. 
But Liberty, sweet sovereign of the realm,* 
Will spread her wings and loiter o'er our 

helm. 
Away, thou specter, lower not thy shades 
Nor spirit that a freeborn race degrades. 
Though empires fall beneath the spoiler's 

hand, 
Thougli nations o'er dead empires' sites ex- 
pand. 
Not all shall fall ; then cease, ye mindless 

knaves, 
Behold the bloodstains on your fathers' 

graves 
And cry no more — in freedom be content — 
Not yet for nought the land's young life was 

spent. 
Behold the war-god on his mountain throne — 
With scarlet scepter — view the gory field ! 
His oozing mantle o'er a heart of stone — 
His glittering eye gloats o'er the sight re- 
vealed 

* The reader is requested to consider the "realm" 
that of the goddess Liberty, as a republic of course is 
pot a realm. 



44 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

While wild-eyed Riot o'er his glistening 

shield 
Pours beams of fire that melt not his soul, 
For, in the flame that rages, lie concealed 
The passions of the giant that control 
The iron gates that close round Glory's 

scroll.* 
Shall then that won by war be swept away, 
Shall patriots' treasures wither and decay ? 
Nay, heed the annals written on Time's 

wheel 
Whose moments clang when nations are at 

strife 
Behold, earth's record chiseled in the steel 
.Whereon is pictured agony of life, 
Nor be aroused by demagogue's false tongue, 
To such, let no psean still be sung. 

* These few lines which appear somewhat irregular 
in rhyme are merely an excerpt of a poem written not 
long ago by myself in what poets used to call the Spen- 
serian stanza, it being originated by Edmund Spenser. 
It is considered one of the most difficult — in fact the 
most difficult — forms of versification and for this reason 
has never been used by modern writers. I trust the 
above irregularity will be excused. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 45 

tower of Babel, reared unto the skies, 
From out thy galleries wild the rabble cries, 
Whose echoing sounds o'er truth ascending 

call, 
Float boisterous on, grow faint, expire and 

fall. 
O blended voices of chaotic souls 
Whose ribaldry along the century rolls, 
Be there one sunbeam streaming o'er the 

mass, 
One ray of truth ? Of reason ? None, alas ! 
What worshipers will hail them o'er the 

line ? 
Will sons more skilled deem noise like this 

divine ? 
Fear not posterit}", thou shalt not know 
The creaking essence of our bliss or woe. 
For fame, ere then, will cast the frail aside 
Whose power was spent in one unnatural 

stride. 
Abusers all of art and intellect 
Who little do, but great applause expect. 
Ungodly vandals who our treasuries sack 
Who will atone — who call the exiled back ? 



46 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Ye who would form of mire a marble pile, 
Make Venus rave or cold Medusa smile, 
Ye who usurp the poet's sacred realm — 
With ill-rhymed verse the gentle overwhelm ; 
Who flood the market with a wild deluge 
For soothing balm of mud or vermifuge — 
Who sing of love (a monster now we judge 
'Gainst whom all learned and unlearned hold 

their grudge) 
Who flowers address like Scotland's gifted 

Burns 
(He though was rather skillful in such 

turns,) 
Who speak of past, philosophize on life, 
Tell who to choose for husband, or for wife, 
ye who rack your brains for theories new, 
Inspiring scandals, feigning good to do — 
Cease, let us rest or for a change prepare, 
For strains like these upon the feelings tear. 
Inscribe your musings on your study walls 
Or let them float along Oblivion's halls. 
Nor tragic make a silly comedy ; 
Abandon all — set crowds deluded free. 
Great authors' portraits dangle everywhere, 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune, 47 

Bald-headed some — some looks of greatness 

wear. 
But some e'en blessed with hair ne'er felt a 

comb, 
'Tis ruffled like the plot that plods their tome. 
Let queer Mark Twain and Paderewski thus 
Spread their strange personalities to us, 
They may afford to thus eccentric be 
But let not all court Eccentricity. 
The stuff they mold possesses quite enough. 
Would ye be queer ? Then cease to make 

the stuff. 
lovely tales that greet our eager eyes, 
From Hades scenes, and pictures from the 

skies. 
Each family yields its votary to the set, 
Except my own which somber failure met. 
And manuscripts by carload yearly pour 
On printers' desks whose giant presses roar. 
But when a youth, e'en friendless and alone, 
Before some bloated devil stands, his tone 
Persuasive and his feelings filled with fears. 
Who hopes for joy in some succeeding years 
The busy mortal bids him take a seat 



48 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

That later he his business may repeat. 
Then looking o'er the schoolboy stuff he 

grins — 
Says later oft one smiles of fortune wins. 
Tells of a friend out in the suburbs where 
You might admitted be, but over there 
Lives one, the greatest of the great, who 

tells 
In just what sphere a bard or idiot dwells. 
But should you say you never heard of him 
This Cerberus who rots in regions grim 
Proclaims it strange since such a power was 

his 
Few knew it and his friend offended is. 
Thus lies the field o'er which the tyrants 

roam 
Intruders all who make the land their home, 
Tramp o'er the flowery graves of gifted 

men — 
Truth, assert thy rights and reign again. 

Fair Athens, Alexandria and Rome — 
Once famed for learning — each the poet's 
home — 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 49 

Though flame and war your archives have 
subdued 

'Tis good your books ere this have been re- 
viewed. 

What would they win in these degraded 
days ? 

A passing look, contempt, but nay, no 
praise. 

But even yet some recollect the times 

When Ptolemy gathered books and Hellas 
rh3anes. 

Still to those times with longing looks we 
gaze 

When classic bards made pleasant classic 
days. 

Whose music swells through centuries and 
again 

Great Rome sang sweetly through Augus- 
tus' reign. 

And what, deemed Time, should be these 
poems' worth ? 

Immortal places o'er the realms of earth. 

No laurel wreaths are twined for worthies 

now 
4 



5o When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

But such may deck a plodding author's brow; 
Like those of old ; no harps these days are 

swept, 
But would-be wonders unto fame have crept. 

Reporters, women, schoolboys, everyone 

The little race along the pathway run, 

Write naval histories, novels, essays, verse. 

Some soar to heaven but none would ride 
the hearse. 

And o'er the crowded jDath these days ar© 
strewn 

Flowers meant for great but snatched by 
every loon. 

In New York east and on to ' Frisco west 

These scribes relieve their minds with 
thought distressed. 

Pour o'er each page besmeared with bluish 
ink 

More plans and thoughts than fools con- 
firmed could think. 

Tell judges, senators and all frail men 

Just what to do to honor win again. 

Or argue for the laboring class and tell 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune, 51 

Of joys in which they ne'er did but should 

dwelL 
We late have seen a pander of the crew 
A childish act of low injustice do, 
And cast a slur upon a noble man 
That he might form another sluggish clan. 
May worms consume this viper's dirty work, 
Let not the land o'er such a falsehood smirk. 

Great "yearly books" upon the counters 

lie 
Whose silly titles with each other vie, 
A " modest " title decks some volumes new 
yes, quite modest and with reason too. 
But e'en a name laconic as can be 
But flattery casts o'er what within you see. 
Philosophy, biography,— what not ? 
Confused run through a labyrinthian plot ; 
Advice to statesmen, nations e'en, and cooks; 
Historic ravings ; histrionic books — 
"Beast-tales" (but, Heavens ! why not speak 

of themselves — 
Or claw their nightmares off the bookman's 

shelves ?) ; 



52 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

All hint of knowledge ; problems solve of 
fate, 

All jostle on with ever hustling gait. 

All praise each other — of one school are all ; 

Some rise o'er others — none inglorious fall. 

Poor weakly scribes whose volumes weakly 
bind 

Thoughts by the bundle from each mon- 
strous mind. 

Though once the wise said, "Nothing can 
be known," 

Truth's been surpassed— usurped has been 
her throne. 



feeble fools who foil the smiles of Fame 
Which beams on all since all are in the 

game. 
Not now in sunny realms the muses bask, 
And lowered Glory gives to all who ask. 
The poets' reign is crushed — their laurels 

fade ; 
Their stolen thoughts in rags appear ar- 
rayed. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 53 

And poets' rank if we believe reviews * 
Is judged by ways of life, not by the muse. 

Sad mutilated figures of the great 
To tatters torn by ruffian hands of hate— 
All stanzas loved and gently used of old 
So tortured are by heathens proudly bold. 
Who shame the strong, the gentle ones 

annoy, 
And all that's fair with poisonous taint 

destroy. 
Shall none protest ? Shall none with power. 

proclaim 
These base marauders vandal thieves of 

fame ? 
Shall all be calm, this sacrilege applaud ? 
Be pleased by wit— by tragedy o'erawed ? 

* In a cheap magazine not long ago appeared the state- 
ment that some people still admire Byron and take a de- 
light in reading him on account of his ways of life ;"as 
thougli he is not one of the literary prodigies of all ages. 
No one appreciates such ability until they understand 
poetry, for the mere writing of verses is that which any 
one can accomplish and a poet produces them with an 
ease and a rapidity tliat would seem incredible to those 
who erroneously believe poetry to be a difficult art. 



54 When Bards Sing Out of Tune.; 

Yet say not all are happily thus bereft 

Of things admired whose names alone are 

left. 
Say not that all contented thus shall be 
With ugly minds who caused the muse 

flee- 
Still some will gaze unto a future year 
When all the nine in triumph will appear. 

Sweet sonnets breathing eloquence and peace 
A column in all published pamphlets lease, 
While at the top or 'neath the fourteenth 

line 
The bard, who like his verse would be divine. 
Has stamped his name, 'tis proper to be sure, 
But far more proper were it still obscure. 
sonnets, sweet companions of my youth. 
The way I used thy stanzas seemed uncouth, 
Two score a day — but then I was in love 
And soaring to the amorous heights above. 
But in such space religious thought to twine 
Was not my gift — I never was divine. 
But this dear author. Christian like and 

chaste. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 55 

Shall not on love his God-^iven talent waste. 
His lyre will whisper to the saintly air 
The strains that shame the low and debonair. 
I know not this particular master's name, 
But calm it nestles in our modern fame. 
Unjust perhaps it is to speak this way, 
But what's religion in this present day ? 
Ten thousand preachers, learned hypocrites, 
Whose blasphemy blackwinged around us 

flits. 
To their parishioners cry this and that — 
With western judges join in fierce combat, ' 
Yet trapped — they tremble in their sacred 

knees, 
To prison shun do all that law may please. 
All claim Christ's power — preach — but who 

could not ? 
But now it seems Christ's healing power's 

forgot. 
E'en when another creed mysterious 
With good intent claims that 'twill aid us 

thus 
Is spread before the thinking masses, then 
Anathemas flow from these moral men. 



56 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

From every pulpit as from Satans comes 
The black abuse of these renowned Tom 

Thumbs. 
Vituperate our noblest human powers — 
(The newer faith their congregation lowers) 
What one of them e'er did what Christ hath 

told? 
Who heals the sick as Christians did of old ? 
Who ever raised a dead man ? See they 

not 
The infamy of this celestial rot ? 
While in our great metropolis down east 
One says 'tis well that fashion drink and 

feast 
Since those disposed to do those things are 

in 
His wealthy parish and his realm of sin. 
babbling jDreachers — slanderers of Christ 
By gaiety to Satan's realm enticed, 
Wherefore degrade the sacred name of 

saint 
The altars of the Christ with evil taint ? 
What will reward such men beyond the 

grave ? 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 57 

Who lose the souls their duty 'tis to save ? * 
Carnegie ! illustrious Scottish chief ! 
Who givest us books and famished souls 

relief. 
Thou lucky mortal! Caesar of the land ! 
Erecting piles that shall forever stand — 
Immortal Cheops! where will Egypt be 
Ten centuries hence when "Good King 

Carnegie " 
Will be inscribed in ancient annals ? Then 
You'll shine amongst your noble brother 

men. 
Then Egypt will no longer boast her Sphinx 
(Another's there who of the future thinks). 
Then over in South Africa perhaps, 
A place renowned for Boer and British traps, 

* No apology wliatever is offered for this blasphemy, 
more than to say that those who read may judge for 
themselves whether it is right or wrong. This pro- 
fession is the weakest and most useless of modern times 
except the medical profession which cannot cure one 
fatal disease that ever afflicted the human race, and it 
would be a blessing to humanity if all of their " theories," 
their quackery and their medicine would be given to 
destruction. There is as good a field for the satirist in 
either of these professions as in my feeble literary world. 



58 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Amid the relics of a land decayed 
A mummy or some bones will be displayed 
And all will know the " builder of the tombs," 
Whose work the annals of his land illumes. 
Then they'll relate the tale of many a ' ' deal," 
And guides proclaim," It is the man of 

steel ! * 
Yet still, grand man, you could a wonder do, 
Another honor win e'er life is through, 
A kindergarten found for bookish folks 
Where they may study tragedy and jokes — 
Laws of divorce — the principles of love — 
Just where our heaven's site is up above — 
On labor ponder — trusts and kindred things — 

* This fickle rhyme does not express the author's opin- 
ion of Mr. Carnegie at all. In fact it is quite the op- 
posite, as this gentleman has appropriated his private 
fortune voluntarily to the betterment of the world and 
should be honored and respected for his good work. 
Those who look at his acts in the light in which the 
verse places tliem ai'e certainly vain and narrow-minded 
and unjust, and even were the motive as represented 
there it could not destroy the goodness derived from it, 
as all men wish to be remembered for good acts and by 
their countrymen and have a perfect right to attempt 
to attain their respect. But Carnegie is such a gener- 
ous mortal that thinking of his good acts gives one an 
•'inspiration." 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 59 

Prognosis try — since we're exposed to Kings. 
The laws of criticism study deep — 
An eye on romance of all species keep — 
Learn how to tell of duchesses and dukes, 
Of gallant knights, sweet heiresses and 

spooks — 
Learn how to weave some French expres- 
sion in — 
(Already though they've that pedantic sin) — 
Work " problems " out in words not 'rith- 

metic 
But bare of fruit as deserts Arabic. 
And have connected too a dormitory 
Where some may slumber, dream and mold 

a story, 
Or give the dull ones lamps and peanut 

oil- 
Extract of poppy show them how to boil, 
Thus wrapped in soothing sleep that lulls the 

soul 
Immortal shapes along the mind would roll. 
spectral forms whose shadows flit across 
The costly reams bedecked with artful gloss. 
Sweet haughty ladies — fairies, graces, elveg 



6o When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Whose only thought's of flattery and them- 
selves. 

Or heroes from imaginary wars 

Whose flashy clothes before them radiance 
pours, 

Whose manly airs, broad shoulders, and fine 
looks 

Like ghosts of Jasons wander o'er our books. 

Undying figures — modern heroes all, 

Or Helens who ne'er witnessed Ilium's fall. 

Or souls in anguish such as Dante saw 

That hold one in infernal spells of awe — 

Small vials of deadly poison, suicides — 
Unmannered villains snatching dainty 

brides — 
Or some pure preacher who won't bow to 

love — 
Though demons claw within he will not 

move — 
Till passion killed he sweeps along the 

sky, 
To claim his crown in fabled realms on high. 
Such tales ill written, " problematic " pour 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 6i 

On printers' desks and flood the bookman's 

store. 
A hundred thousand such are monthly sold, 
For tales like these delight the young and 

old. 
Old maids and widows, bachelors, reverend 

men 
Cast toil aside — play havoc with the pen. 
Dabble in verse — but say it makes one laugh 
What weedy seeds are hidden in this chaff. 
Melodious strains like those from southern 

seas 
Discordant pound for music to the breeze. 
Of all the rant, the trash, that one e'er read 
By living poets, known, unknown or dead ; 
Of all verse revealing minds diseased — 
Meant for reform but which not heathens 

pleased ; 
Of all the thoughts from heaven cast or hell, 
These blighted souls in strains of anguish 

tell. 
Grim death, sweet love— poor Eros — Psyche 

too. 
Old men who've only yet got death to do — 



62 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

White monsters, black, and colored if you 

choose — 
Types of what one will win by death or 

lose — 
Alike are painted and alike are read — 
And monodies and anthems for the dead. 
They know all truth, they've fathomed every- 
thing ; 
Know where the Titans writhe — where 

seraphs sing. 
But I perhaps, so young, should not declare 
'Gainst these celebrities, Eut who would 

bear 
Tormented thus by stuff e'en bad as mine, 
But cast before our eyes and called divine ? 
Will I be calm and see my favorites cast 
Away by this contagious poisonous blast ? 
I, who have read all through a lonely life 
Things that may spread a glory o'er my 

strife ; 
I, who have thought, admired, dreamed of 

some 
Who whisper still though silent sleep and 

dumb, 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 63 

Shall I behold their wreaths fall into sere, 
Praise modern freaks who thus disgrace 

them here ? 
Have none respect, regard, for marvelous 

men ? 
Did they but live to toil and die again ? 
What were the world if such were cast aside 
Would Rome be Rome, Greece Greece and 

glorified ? 
But down in Indiana — near my home 
The jolly Ryley singing's wont to roam. 
Though he may pass his wine god Bacchus 

by, 

Or stumble round awhile with sober Nye, 
He soon returns and on the river banks 
Returns to heaven for prosperous seasons 

thanks. 
Or watches turtles drop from off a log. 

Or catches thoughts that float around the 

bog. 
To some of his sweet phrases did I list 
(E'en learned some when an elocutionist), 
The only reason I recall them thus 



64 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

Is that I got them mixed with " Spartacus— 

Oft' saw the gladiator in my dreams 

Stroll by the Wabash, not by Roman 

streams. 
Or saw him shabbily dressed cast lines for 

fish- 
That one would nibble his supremest wish ; 
Or saw him watching tortoises not Eome 
With rotted logs not craters still his home. 
Yet be there one amid the modern mob 
Deserving of so lucrative a job 
I think James Whitcomb really is that one ; 
Take no offence, old boy, for I mean none. 

I now have traced my simple satire through, 
'Twas outlined quickly — written quickly too. 
In future days, if longer still I live 
This act perhaps remorse alone will give. 
Yet though some read and may offended be, 
'Twill make but little difference now to me. 
Tried have I been within my little day. 
Yet few have known or cared to make me 

gay- 
Yet unlike others I have deeply thought 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 65 

Till chaos only lowered which has taught 
A strange philosophy — a deep despair — 
That so-called mind is little more than air. 
And now it seems through countless ages' 

flight 
We gaze alone into a blackened night. 
That greater minds than are or e'er will be, 
Have flourished 'neath a pagan deity 
Whose power now is but a myth, and who 
Knows that our creeds are not as truthless 

too? 
Christ healed the sick. Some say '' a mar- 
velous thing." 
I ask yon painter how he copies spring 
Upon a sheet of canvas with such ease — 
He says, " Thou could'st do thus if you but 

please." 
I deem the man a fool and stare. Christ 

said, 
*' And have ye seen yet none can raise the 

dead?" 
Yet let this pass with but one more remark — 
The brain alone yields light, alone brings 

dark — 



66 When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 

And when that httle thing is injured, where 
Has reason fled ? Destroy the brain and 

there 
Is not in reason (Wherefore go beyond ?) 
A thing of spirit that can e'er respond 
To heaven or hell and death by reason shows 
Forgetfulness, nor torture nor repose. 
And now my task — my pastime rather's 

o'er — 
Hush, my machine — disturb the guests no 

more, 

*This lampoon was composed entirely on a type- 
writer. 

Mortality and immortality are exactly the same 
things. Death is an event in life. The death of our 
late President was perhaps the greatest and most 
impressive event in his life. We remember Abra- 
hani Lincoln chiefly by two events : one the emancipa- 
tion of the slaves, the other his death. Tlie only proof 
we have of tlie popular " immortality of the soul" is 
the simple fact that when we are asleep the mind still 
acts. So does the heart ; but were the heart destroyed 
there would be no circulation of blood, neither would 
there be a circulation of thought were the brain or the 
organ of thought destroyed. A maniac has a diseased 
or an injured brain, therefore the working of that organ 
is irregular, producing an irregular circulation of 
thought. The belief that the earth is flat was all the 

IL.ofC. 



When Bards Sing Out of Tune. 67 

rage in Europe and other parts of tlie world until a 
mere man came forward and proved the falsity of the 
belief. Beliefs and faiths are no better than lies. 
Everything is material. No act ever done by man or 
God was anything else. The emancipation of the slaves 
was the freeing theni from manual labor and the sup- 
posed miseries of such ; but to briiig this about, one 
million good and intelligent men were swept fmm the 
face of the earth. Love is material. Whei. ar. object 
of love is absent or dead there is a craving for its pres- 
ence. Were the love spiritual there could be no 
absence. Leave the world and its systems, and its 
mechanism and its mysteries alone and float on the tide 
of time. Doing this you will live easy ; otherwise you 
will be dragged along no matter how you attempt to 
resist. No one ever knew anything but a material 
world, and no one ever Avill know anything but a 
material world because there is no other kind of a 
world. Every act, thought, and feeling can be traced 
to a material source. Disease is material, so is health. 
Spiritual things are absolutely inconceivable. Could 
they be reached by thought they would be nothingness. 
Time and eternity are analogous. 




^pR7 



- laoa 



APR 7 1902 



r 







